by Alice Ashe
Tonight, you come dragging your laundry
behind you in a flimsy black garbage bag,
already snagged and tearing at one seam:
frayed lace, stained satin spilling out like dreams.
We haul it to the kitchen, shake your clothes
into my ancient machine. The dog sniffs
at some stray undergarment, and I fetch
a barstool, tell you: sit. I pour wine,
though your words already feel fuzzy,
thick as your sadness, a sadness so thick
I could hold it, let it crumble against
my palm, white flaking cake of detergent.
The washer strains its sodden lullaby
and you, you slip into the night, dissolve.
Alice Ashe holds a BA in Women’s Studies and English from Emory University and an MA in English with a literary studies concentration from Georgia State University; she is currently pursuing her MFA in creative writing from Georgia State University. Alice lives in Atlanta with her partner and son.
Hawaii Pacific Review 